


Maintaining the Trust

by taoroo



Series: The Bonds of Brotherhood [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hugging, Spanking, and some extra, d'Artagnan gets what's coming to him (again)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6297547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taoroo/pseuds/taoroo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two weeks since d'Artagnian received his first lesson at the hands of Athos and his fellow Inseperables. Now a fully fledged member of the Musketeers, d'Artagnan finds that some members of his newly expanded family are not quite so easy to get along with. The consequences for once more allowing his temper to get the better of him, however, are always the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Appointment with the Marquis

D’Artagnan stood to rigid attention, his eyes fixed ahead of him at a point just above Treville’s shoulder.

The captain was sitting behind his desk, fingers steepled as his eyes wandered first over d’Artagnan and then to the boy’s neighbour, another newly enlisted member of the Musketeers named Antoinne.

The pairs’ leathers were dirtied and ripped, and their hair in disarray. Both wore matching scowls, but only Antoinne’s face was marked; a purpling bruise blossoming out around a swelling eye. By accounts the boy hadn’t been completely useless after the first unexpected attack, but he had a fair ways to go if he ever wanted to brawl with men of d’Artagnan’s calibre again.

 _Not that there will be danger of that once his father becomes involved_ , Treville mentally corrected himself. He was going to have to be extremely careful how this was handled.

Behind the junior musketeers at equally stiff attention stood their mentors. Monsieur Gaspard’s face was a worried frown – sensible given the circumstances – whilst behind Athos’ carefully blank expression was a man quietly fuming.

Treville knew that d’Artagnan could sense the disapproval in the way the boy shifted minutely, tell-tale beads of sweat gathering on his dirt-encrusted brow.

“Explain,” Treville addressed d’Artagnan with a snap that allowed his anger to show.

D’Artagnan stifled a flinch and took a deep breath, forcing himself to look his commanding officer in the eye.

“There’s nothing to explain, sir,” he said, as formally as he could. “It was a private disagreement.”

“Disagreement,” Treville echoed. He sat back in his chair and regarded d’Artagnan with a disapproving scowl.

The boy clearly saw that he had chosen his words poorly and stammered to correct himself. Antionne got there before him.

“This little wretch attacked me without provocation, sir!” he said in an aristocratic twang that reeked of privilege. “I demand he be disbarred.”

The young man’s words died in his throat as Treville fixed him with a warning eye as sharp as any rapier.

“No provocation?” he asked d’Artagnan, whose mouth opened and then snapped closed silently in response.

The boy was clearly wrestling with his conscience, no doubt not wishing to land his partner in crime in any more trouble than he was already in, despite his obvious loathing of his fellow musketeer.

“Need I make it an order?” Treville promoted. His shoulder ached where LaBarge had injured it, barely two weeks ago. The boy certainly moved fast.

“He called my parentage into question, sir, and mocked my heritage,” d’Artagnan ground out.

“An honest question, sir,” Antionne rebutted, “we should all know where the mannerless tramp hails from.”

D’Artagnan shifted, his hands clenching.

Treville grasped the arms of his chair, pulling himself up and fixing the Gascony boy with a baleful glare.

“Do not even contemplate it,” he said, his voice a throaty growl made of deadly promise.

When d’Artagnan had withdrawn back into attention, Treville clasped his hands behind his back and began a slow stroll about the room.

“I will not have brawling amongst my men—in the courtyard no less!—whatever the provocation,” he said as he passed behind the young men. “I am greatly disappointed in both of you.”

“Sir, I—” d’Artagnan began.

“Silence!” Treville bawled in the boy’s ear. To his credit, the young Gascon did not flinch.

The commander resumed his stride, head bent in contemplation.

“I see no other option but to deal with this severely,” he declared after several tense minutes. “Gaspard, Athos; as their mentors I ask that you see to charge’s punishments in whatever way you see fit. But if this incident is repeated, mark my words...”  


Finishing his circuit of the room, Treville stopped behind his desk, placing his fisted hands upon the wood and leaning toward them for good measure. His shoulder twinged. He ignored it.  


“...The next time I shall have the pair of you publicly flogged.”  


The two junior musketeer’s faces paled at this and they both saluted smartly, giving no excuse for the commander to follow through with his threat.

oOo

As he left the office, d’Artagnan felt a hand encircle the nape of his neck, propelling him at a brisk walking pace through the garrison.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, then repeated himself more clearly when the man gave no reply. He turned his head as much as the firm grip allowed and tried to catch Athos’ eye but the elder musketeer ignored him, glaring ahead with a fervour in his gaze and set in his jaw that caused d’Artagnan’s stomach to sink.

It had been over two weeks since the elder musketeer and his fellow inseparables had seen fit to educate d’Artagnan in the matters of “head over heart”. Glumly he pondered whether this occasion would be any different.

_But he was in the right, dammit! Antionne had clearly insulted him, and his mother! Surely it was a musketeer’s duty to mete out such justice? Athos himself had done the same on many occasions with the Red Guard or other such discourteous cur._

_Some weeks ago he had believed that attacking LaBarge had been justice too..._

“It was just a small scuffle,” he heard himself babbling, “You could hardly even call it a brawl.” He snorted indelicately. “Not the way Antionne fights anyway.”

They had reached the armoury by this point and Athos finally uttered his first sound since he had been summoned to the commander’s office: a feral snarl that set d’Artagnan’s pulse racing with impending doom.

“The young monsieur has an appointment with the Marquis,” Athos snapped at the quartermaster, in a formal way that suggested a hidden meaning to the words. To d’Artagnan they were nonsense, a mystery which was swiftly solved when the stoic quartermaster gave a wordless nod and turned to a locked cabinet behind his desk. From this a thick leather strap was withdrawn.

D’Artagnan had never in his life been the recipient of a thrashing. His father had preferred his own belt, but that had been less than half the size of the heavy implement that now covered the width of the Quartermaster’s palm.

The anger that had filled him drained away into his boots. He stared mutely as Athos took the strap and hefted it experimentally, checking its weight as one would a well-forged sword.

“I’ve never had occasion to use this,” Athos said gruffly, his hand still firm upon the boy’s neck, “...had one used on me a few times, back in my youth. The sting will take some days to wear off.”

Athos pushed his student towards an empty weapon rack, just high enough that the bar would lift d’Artagnan some inches from the ground.

“Bare yourself.”

D’Artagnan flushed scarlet, his eyes widening to show their whites.

“I don’t understand,” he growled, anger returning at the absurdity of the situation. “Normally you would applaud me knocking a pompous tit like Antionne on his arse.”

Athos lunged forward, snatching at d’Artagnan’s lapels and raising him up so that the boy had to struggle on the points of his toes. This brought the strap close enough to d’Artagnan’s face for him to smell the leather and oil, to gauge its thickness and imagine its sting. He resisted the urge to sneer in distaste.

“That “pompous little tit” is Antionne d’Melliuor,” Athos was saying. “His father pays for the keep of over half the garrison. Without that boy’s family, there would be no Musketeers.”

“So you’re telling me we have to give that puffed-up peacock special treatment?” d’Artagnan demanded, his voice quietened by disbelief. He could never have imagined his precious musketeers to have been so dishonest.

“Do you have fifty thousand livres to pay us each quarter?” Athos demanded, setting d’Artagnan down heavily and stepping back to gesticulate angrily. “…This isn’t just about who you were fighting with, however.”

“Oh really?” d’Artagnan drawled, his eyes narrowed sceptically.

“Really,” Athos growled viciously. “Antionne is a musketeer, your brother. We do not fight our brothers—at least not in public!”

“But beating me is perfectly acceptable?” d’Artagnan snorted.

“Are you disobeying the captain’s direct orders?”

“He told you to punish me as you see fit, not thrash me like a child!” d’Artagnan gestured wildly at the strap. “Athos, there is no honour in this!”

“You and Antionne forfeited your honour when you chose to roll around in the mud like swine,” Athos snarled but then he stepped away, drawing a steadying breath before inclining his head toward the door, his voice a sarcastic drawl.

“Go. Raise your objections to Treville if you fancy your chances. I’m certain he will be happy to oblige you with a punishment more fitting with your station.”

D’Artagnan remembered Treville’s threat and stepped back, shaking his head mutely.

“Then you have a choice,” Athos said darkly. “Submit to this, or do not. But if you do not you question my authority as your mentor, and Treville’s as your captain, and are not fit to call yourself a Musketeer.”

A lead weight sent d’Artagnan’s stomach plummeting. He was in an impossible situation. From the look on his face, Athos would not be swayed in this. In reality there was no choice at all.

“Very well,” he ground out, turning swiftly on his heel before he could change his mind. He tore at his lacings and yanked down his breeches harshly, letting Athos know that he was complying only under duress. His undergarments followed, and he quickly bent over the rack, pushing aside the wash of mortification that resulted from such an exposing position. He gripped the wooden legs to steady himself, feeling the top bar push into his abdomen, pressing uncomfortably on his bladder.

It was with great relief that he heard the Quartermaster leave, but the click of the door behind him sounded like the final nail in his coffin.

“You will count the strokes,” Athos said blandly, clearly having fallen back into his stoic mien. “If you take too long, or miscount, I will start anew.”

D’Artagnan huffed a curse and then winced as the first lash struck.

“One,” he said in a firm and steady voice. He tried not to think about how much it hurt; how after a moment’s numbness the stripe burned and throbbed in time with his fast-beating heart.

“We are not yet begun,” Athos said coolly. “I advise you to keep any further expletives to yourself.”

D’Artagnan shifted in anger. On many occasions he had heard Athos curse like a pirate, but suddenly the man wanted him to be a saint?

“I expect you will move during this,” Athos said. “But any attempt to interfere with your punishment, or exaggerated struggling will cause me to start from the beginning. Am I clear?”

D’Artagnan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes.”

Another lash descended fast and he jumped in surprise.

“Yes, sir!”

“Then let us begin.”

It was horrible. Worse than horrible; it was humiliating. D’Artagnan’s feet dangled above the floor, toe-tips barely brushing the boards, leaving him without a firm surface to push down upon. No, he had to focus all of his attention on the stripes; he couldn’t even distract himself or go elsewhere in his mind thanks to the damned counting. His arms ached already from the strain of holding his body in position.

He tried to stay quiet between the strokes, coming as they were at a steady pace that allowed for a great deal of burn to build before the next fell.

At the seventh blow he was still exhaling from his last count and inhaled sharply. It wasn’t quite a whimper, not really, he told himself even as his ears flamed with embarrassment. He faltered at the next word but repeated it quickly lest Athos be inclined to follow through with his earlier threat and begin again.

There was a pause and he heard the man shift behind him, flinching as a hand rested upon his back. It remained there, heavy but oddly comforting, and he took time to draw a steadying breath before the next stroke fell.

The next half dozen blows he took in silence, wondering just how many the musketeer was planning to bestow, wishing he hadn’t been too stubborn to ask. _Twenty. It was probably twenty_ , he decided. _A round, sensible number, twenty_. He focused on that, forcing his body to remain still.

Twenty came and he unconsciously relaxed down into the bar, huffing the number in relief and allowing his eyes to close.

The twenty-first stroke caused him to yelp in despair and disbelief. He could not help the legs that kicked or the way he squirmed as the pain rippled out across his burning flanks. There was no fresh skin remaining, and the stripes retraced already burning flesh, each stripe throbbing in unison with his heart.

“Be still!” Athos barked, the hand on d’Artagnan’s lower back pressing down firmly. “Enough! Or I shall be forced to start anew.”

D’Artagnan tried to suppress it but still the sob came bubbling up and broke from his lips wetly. Still he managed to turn it into a word, the only one that mattered.

“Twenty-oneeee,” he burbled, letting two stray tears leak past his lids.

There was a long pause, long enough for d’Artagnan to begin hoping they were finished. Then Athos’ hand began to rub small circles in his back.

With great effort, d’Artagnan took a breath and released it, stilling his body by force of will alone. _Oh! If only he could press upon the ground, a sureness of footing would give his precariously tilted reality some stability, safe from hanging over the bar like a piece of tenderised meat._

The next blow came too soon. Too soon! And he choked out the number, beyond caring that his tears could be heard. He strained and pushed, legs rigid and teeth aching they were ground so hard together. Five more strokes he withstood in this manner, grimacing, tears dripping from his chin.

Athos swung low, the strap curling itself around d’Artagnan’s soft undercurve, sending him lurching forward. He scrambled, clutching at the beams to keep from falling, sickness rising to close his throat.

“Please,” he whimpered, his words a rush as he fought against the press of his mentor’s hand, “Please, Athos, pleasepleaseplease!” He bucked and twisted, frantic in his effort to reach the ground. Deep sobs were pulled from him, chocking him as he gasped for breath.

The hand released its pressure and d’Artagnan felt himself drawn back to the floor.

The instant his boots met solid ground he felt like he might buckle in relief. Turning to Athos, he buried his face in the man’s doublet, clutching his shirtsleeves, beyond caring how ridiculous and shameful the action was. He felt the man’s body tense, and feared his refusal, but then Athos’ arms wrapped about him, holding him tight until the worst of his trembling was done with.

Strong hands ran soothingly over d’Artagnan’s back, quiet words muttering platitudes until he regained some composure. Then he was drawn back, held at arm’s length so that he could be studied.

Huffing and sniffling, d’Artagnan dared to dart his eyes upward to assess the extent of his mentor’s displeasure. What he saw instead was only concern; his breakdown had clearly disturbed Athos as much as it had mortified d’Artagnan himself.

“Better?” the man asked gently.

D’Artagnan’s face crumpled and he dropped his chin, sniffing back more tears.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Athos. I know I’m a coward. You must be so disappointed in me. I know we must start again, but please, please not on that.” He jerked his head toward the hated rack and gave a wet grimace. “I promise you I will bear this with the honour of a musketeer... what little of it remains... I will take all you give me without further excuses, only please let me have my feet.”

Athos stayed silent, his face set in its usual unreadable lines. D’Artagnan dropped his head away from his judgement. He released his hold of Athos’ shirt and took half a step away from him, fighting hard to regain some semblance of control, shoulders heaving with the effort. His shirt was long enough at the front to cover him and mimic a nightshirt. He felt like a child, chastised before bedtime, and no more able to withstand his lashes.

The wait was long and excruciating in its humility. Eventually d’Artagnan heard a breath drawn above him, and Athos spoke.

“I owe you an apology, d’Artagnan,” the musketeer said, his voice gruff but calm. “I have been ashamedly lax in my care of you.”

His head shot up, but all d’Artagnan could do was gape at the man, his brow creasing in a frown of bewildered consternation.

“This situation is new to us both,” Athos said. His expression was gentle but sad, mirroring the way he often looked when the man made any mention to his past. “Not only that, but I neglected to tell you how many strokes you would be receiving. Then I took away your last piece of solidity and expected you to take your punishment without comfort... Your upset is quite understandable.”

“I...” d’Artagnan stuttered, but his mentor held up a quieting hand.

“True, you deserved this lashing, but there is no instance, d’Artagnan, in which I will ever allow you to suffer through any punishment alone – as your mentor... and as your friend. I lost sight of that. Can you forgive me my grave error?”

D’Artagnan could barely find the words to form a coherent response, even if he had known what to say. Blinking rapidly and clearing his throat, raw from tears, he gave the only answer that such a strange question merited:

“Of course, my friend.”

Athos smiled, his relief plain. He clapped a friendly hand upon d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Then let us be done with this.”

Dread clenched nauseously about d’Artagnan’s heart but he determined to be brave. Raising his chin he gave his mentor a firm nod. “Yes, sir.”

Athos’ smile twitched a fraction higher, the praise in his eyes shoring up the foundations of d’Artagnan’s courage. He turned the boy gently toward the weapons rack once more.

“Hands upon the bar,” he directed. “The count was thirty.”

D’Artagnan blanched both in horror at how close he had come to success the first time, and also in dismay as he contemplated the agony of this second round. He straitened his back, however, and gave a firm nod once more, placing his hands upon the bar without a word of protest. His shirt moved as his back bent, pulling the rough cotton over his tender backside and he hissed.

Athos made a small sound of empathy, patting the boy’s back and leaving his hand in place there as he had before. This time d’Artagnan felt the full solidity of his position and the hammering of his heart began to fade somewhat.

Athos shifted position and then d’Artagnan felt rather than saw the hand raise. He grit his teeth, knowing from a fortnight past that the first stroke after a rest would be a fresh kind of agony.

When the lash came he saw stars. His breath left him in a great rush as he was propelled forward, his chest hitting the bar.

Athos was at his head in an instant, hand clutching his shoulder, but before he could raise his concerns d’Artagnan had righted himself, setting his feet into a solid stance and glaring stubbornly ahead once more.

“One.”

Athos stilled into rigidity, the hand upon his shoulder clenching briefly.

“D’Artagnan, you cannot surely think that I intend to start from the beginning?” he asked, his voice heavy with shock.

“It’s as you said,” d’Artagnan said, his voice strained but flatly determined. “I could not take such a small thing without struggling like a useless craven.”

Athos huffed in irritation above him and without warning laid another sharp lash upon the boy’s backside. This time d’Artagnan stayed steadfast but instead was yanked upright and about to face his mentor. The strap had been cast aside upon the ground, drawing d’Artagnan’s eyes as if it were a coiled snake.

“I see you understood nothing of what I said,” said Athos with a shake of his head. “You have taken the thirty lashes owing to you, you are not deserving of another thrashing. Come, it is over.”

Athos turned away, trying to draw the boy from the rack. D’Artagnan resisted, his mind fogged with pain and confusion.

“I don’t…” he stammered, feeling the panic begin to rise as he saw his mentor leaving him. “Athos wait!” he clutched at the man’s sleeve desperately, fighting hard to control the fear that bubbled up his throat and made his next words a shameful whine. “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you... I can stand this, I know it… I know I am not deserving but please allow me to regain my worth!”

Athos gaped at him for a long moment, confusion plain. Then his mouth snapped into a grim line and he laid both hands upon the boy’s shoulders, squeezing gently as he gazed into his eyes.

“The fault lay with me, lad, not you. In fact you were admirably resilient considering all that I had you face. I would never punish you for my mistakes, d’Artagnan. You are not deserving of another thrashing.”

But d’Artagnan wasn’t listening, his panic growing into full flood. “No!” he cried desperately, wrenching from Athos’ grip. He snatched the strap up from the floor bringing it to Athos and holding it out in supplication. “Please, Athos… another chance! I shan’t disappoint you… you have my word.”

Somewhere in his mind d’Artagnan watched in horror. He was babbling, crying once more, almost incoherent in his distress. _Why was he begging for more white-hot agony from this man who looked at him with such shocked dismay? And why was it so important that he was prepared to lose all dignity to see it though?_ Even his self-conscious mind could not fathom an answer. He was utterly, utterly lost.


	2. Chapter 2

D’Artagnan was aware through the mist of panic and tears that Athos had picked him bodily up and was carrying him somewhere. Before he could react he felt firm, warm legs beneath his chest, a solid arm at his back holding him down whilst the hand caressed the back of his head in a soothing manner. D'Artagnan barely had time to adjust to this comforting new position before searing pain shot through him from a distinctly hand-shaped flashpoint upon his already scorched rear. He yelled, the room and all its noise and colour snapping back into focus as if he were surfacing from a darkened pool.

“Now that I have your attention once more,” Athos murmured in his usual cool tones. “Perhaps you will do me the courtesy of listening?”

Another hot swat. He was hardly using any force, d’Artagnan could tell, but over the top of his stripped skin it was still shockingly bad.

“AHHHHH AH AHHHHHH!”

“Enough of that, young sir,” Athos reprimanded placidly, laying down his hand in a horribly measured fashion. His palm rested upon d’Artagnan’s skin between strikes, it’s coolness in comparison to his burning flesh a reminder of his place.

“Athos!” d’Artagnan yelped as another blow landed. He tried to push himself free but to no avail. Even had he been fighting-fit and not wearied to the point of exhaustion, d’Artagnan could never hope to best his mentor in a wrestling match.

“Hmm?” Athos replied. “Is there something else that you need, lad?”

D’Artagnan turned sharply, twisting as far back as he could to boggle at the man. “Something I— AH! ...need?!”

Athos continued to swat down, his hand making casual circuits of the boy’s scarlet backside. “No? Then I advise you cease your fussing, young sir. We are not yet half way through.”

“H—half...?”

“Thirty was the agreed amount was it not?”

“But I thought you said— AHH!”

“You surely aren’t regretting your demand, are you?” Athos asked passively. He had not yet looked directly at d’Artagnan, his gaze fixed lazily upon his rear, as if focused upon an onerous task.

D’Artagnan stared at Athos and then he turned back to the fore, slumping as the futility of his situation hit him.  _Demand. Yes, he had demanded this, hadn’t he? Quite rudely so. And Athos had acquiesced, even though clearly the task bored him_. Tears leaked out from under d’Artagnan’s closed lids.  _Why had he pushed this burden upon him? He had given the man nothing but trouble since their first meeting._

A swat landed upon a raised welt that ran along the crease between bottom and thigh. D’Artagnan bit back a sharp cry and clutched instinctively at Athos’ leg, wrapping his arm around it and burying his cheek into the soft, cool leather of his boot.

Athos did not pause in his thrashing, but his free hand moved, pushing his fingers into the hair at the base of d’Artagnan’s neck and slowly rubbing there. It felt wonderful and d’Artagnan let out a quiet sob, his chest contracting painfully at the gesture of affection.

“Good lad,” said Athos, his voice low and gentle. “It was a brave thing, to ask for this when you had been through so much. But I think that it would hurt more for you to live out of favour, hmm?”

D’Artagnan stayed quiet, not knowing quite how to answer this. Tears fell unchecked, running from his cheek and onto Athos’ boot where he watched them run to the flagstones below.

“You still measure your manhood on how much pain your body can take,” Athos continued above him. “And perhaps a man should take what punishment is offered him and ask for no more, despite what he may need. But true absolution is a matter of what is inside your heart, not the minds of others.”

D’Artagnan drew a sharp breath. “You think I- I  _asked_  for this because I felt guilty?” he huffed, sniffling in mortification.

“I think you felt the loss of my favour more keenly than the guilt of your actions,” Athos replied with a chuckle that vibrated through d’Artagnan to his core. “I think you would do much to regain that. Too much.”

D’Artagnan shook his head rapidly. “I couldn’t take the punishment though,” he snarled, “because I’m a cowa—”

Again his world tipped, and before he knew it, d’Artagnan was sitting upright upon Athos’ lap, staring into a pair of grimly narrowed eyes. Both of Athos’ arms were locked about him, supporting him but allowing him no possibility of escape from his embarrassing new position.

“You, Charles d’Artagnan, are no coward,” the man said, his forceful tone brooking no argument. “Any man would come undone when faced with the uncertainty of your position. But when you had calmed what did you do?”

D’Artagnan flushed, turning his eyes away from the intense stare. His bare thighs rested upon Athos’ legs, his backside hanging over the edge tingling as it met the room’s cool air. His breeches, formerly pushed to his knees, where now bunched at his ankles, thanks clearly to his squirming and thrashing about. He felt very foolish indeed.

“I...” he faltered, flushing deeper, unable to give appropriate voice to his actions.

A hand left its place upon his hip and fingers took hold of his chin, turning his face upward to meet Athos’ stare.

“You faced your pain and withstood it with honour,” he said. “You did not falter, or try to run. Yet you still believe yourself unworthy.”

The last words were a question, and a trap in d’Artagnan’s mind.

“But you just...” he stopped, unable to say the words.

“I just thrashed you because you asked it of me and for no other reason.” Athos’ lips quirked in a half-smile. “Your need for absolution is going to keep you and I both quite busy, Charles.”

D’Artagnan gaped at his mentor for a long moment and then snapped his mouth shut. “May I be permitted to dress?” he asked steadily.

Athos’ brow rose. “Are you certain that you no longer require my hand?”

“Quite sure, monsieur,” d’Artagnan growled, blushing furiously.

“Then you may.”

D’Artagnan hastily rose and yanked his breeches up his thighs. He ignored the shooting pain as he drew his smalls and breeches over his scorched rear, gritting his teeth together and allowing no other outward display of pain. When finished, he stood awkwardly, knowing that he should wait to be dismissed but unwilling to ask it in case it gave rise to more humiliating questions. He stood far enough apart from Athos that it was almost an insult, head hanging to hide his face behind his hair.

“D’Artagnan.”

Knowing the word was a command, the young musketeer swallowed back his nervousness and looked up.

Athos watched him silently for a moment. He still sat upon the bench, relaxed as if in the Parisian sunshine enjoying a glass of wine.

“Come here.”

His feet obeyed even while his mind pondered the consequences of refusal. D’Artagnan found himself a step before his mentor, standing once more to rigid attention.

Athos gave a huff of laughter and reached forward, snatching the boy’s arm and tugging hard. With a yelp, d’Artagnan fell forward, Athos catching his torso so that his knees did not land painfully upon the flagstones. Arms again locked about him, as d’Artagnan was pressed firmly against the elder musketeer’s chest. For the first few shocked seconds he did nothing, and then, with rather embarrassing fervour, d’Artagnan wrapped his arms tightly about Athos’ middle. He pressed his face into the hair at Athos’ neck, taking in deep, sobbing breaths.

One hand stroked at his head whilst the other ran circles over his back. Athos was saying something, but all d’Artagnan was focused upon was trying not to break down completely.

“What...?” he mumbled, pulling back a little but unwilling to do more lest he lose his position.

Another chuckle. “I said that you were brave, and I am proud to call you my brother, young musketeer.”

“Proud?” d’Artagnan’s voice wobbled dangerously.

“Yes, proud, and if you don’t drop that disbelieving tone this instant my hand shall revisit your backside.” Athos' frown, which had accompanied his serious statement, twitched into a benevolent smirk. “Reticence will not aid you here, my friend. We shall wait here, as we are, until I have the whole of you.”

“I...” D’Artagnan gave a genuine frown of confusion. “...what?”

“Cry, you idiot. Stop pretending you don’t want to.”

D'Artagnan gawped, too shocked and mortified to reply. Athos' words had succeeded in accomplishing what his wavering spirit had been fighting to achieve. How could he possibly bring himself to tears before this man? To subject him to such a shameful display?

Athos huffed a sigh and pulled the boy close to him once more. "A poor choice of words, perhaps," he muttered, almost to himself. More clearly he said: "Charles, it is not in our nature to concede defeat, even against overwhelming odds. In fact, I would say you thrive on such times. To give your welfare over wholly to another is no small feat of trust. But, here and now, in this place, I would consider it an honour. You are my charge, lad, and my friend. Let me allow you this comfort, brother."

D'Artagnan's breath had caught during his mentor's words, and now he let it slip slowly from his lips in a sigh. He closed his eyes, dislodging the tears that gathered at the edges, which scattered on Athos' doublet and soaked into the leather. His  _friend_. His  _brother_. The words stuck in his throat, chocking him, constricting his chest so that his next breath was a gasp. Then the next, and the next. D'Artagnan sobbed, clutching Athos so tightly that the grip was bruising, burying his face into the leather at his shoulder and wailing long and low. What part of him that cared that he may be overheard was drowned under the flood of emotion that wracked him until he was a shuddering, sniffling mess.

Athos for his part held fast, stroking comforting circles over the lad's back and caressing his tangled hair, offering murmured platitudes and words of encouragement that felt  _so_  good. D'Artagnan could only cry all the harder for this treatment, knowing that the man had him safe, and saw that safeguarding not as an onerous task, but with ardent duty. His backside ached horribly, and he was wearied to the core. He cried for the pain of it, unrepentant at last to show his true colours, and all the harder at the satisfaction and peace that this knowledge brought.

Eventually though, after the tears had dried and the shaking long subsided, when only the occasional sniffle and tremor plagued him, d'Artagnan heaved a weary, yet satisfied sigh. His grip was no longer so hard, his aching fingers protesting their treatment. Yet he felt quite reluctant to let Athos go.

"Thank you, brother," he said, face still pressed against the man's doublet. "Truly, I needed that."

"I would say so," Athos replied with humour in his voice. "Do you feel able to stand? I believe it may be time for you to retire to your barrack rooms for a time. A nap before your evening watch, perhaps?"

D'Artagnan winced at the prospect but did not protest. His body ached terribly when he rose from the cold floor, stretching out his muscles as surreptitiously as he was able.

"I am no feckless Spaniard in need of a midday reprieve," he grumbled, though he had to admit to himself that it was only half-hearted.

"No, you are simply a well-spanked man, with a six hour stand at guard duty ahead of him."

"Athos!"

"I shall call for you before time and we can share a meal with those two other reprobates before you begin."

"There is no need to trouble—"

"Aramis has an excellent cooling salve that you may avail yourself of."

"I don't need mothering!"

Athos raised a brow.

D'Artagnan flushed and dropped his head, scuffing a boot upon the floor. "I... thank you, Athos. I apologise for fighting with Antionne, it shall not happen again."

"Of that I have no doubt. In times of danger, when all other fail, a musketeer must trust in his brothers to aid him."

"Even if they’re a pompous tit?"

Athos ducked his head but did not try to hide his smile. "Even so." He stood, clapping his young charge upon the shoulder and steering him gently toward the door.

 

oOo

 

The night air was cool. D'Artagnan wished that the coolness would reach the fire that still lingered in his backside, causing him to shift as discreetly as possible under the watchful eyes of his companions.

Porthos, Aramis, and Athos were sat upon the dining bench, well into their second jug of spiced wine. The heat of it curled upward into the darkening sky. The three paid d'Artagnan no mind, yet still contrived to speak in voices that carried to the gate where he stood on watch. Each time a remark was made that could have possibly been directed toward him, d'Artagnan remained resolutely at attention. If he risked a glance to his periphery, the three would unerringly be looking in quite the opposite direction. They had made veiled jokes about the state of his person over the evening meal; sly, cheerful digs that d'Artagnan brushed off with only a small measure of mortification. It was a warm feeling; to be surrounded by these giants of men, to be recognised and welcomed into their confidence in such a matter-of-fact way. The watch could be lonely enough without the fatigue of his most recent discipline session weighing down his limbs and throbbing mindfully across the welts on his backside.

Aramis' snide comment and Porthos' responding boom of laughter had d'Artagnan fighting to keep a smile from his face. He wondered what he had done in his life to be blessed with the support of such fine warriors. Athos had made it abundantly clear once more that they saw him as something greater than a casual acquaintance. No, these were brothers, family as he had never had before, not since that one cold winter had taken his mother and sister, and left he and his father alone. LaBarge had burnt away the final remnants of his past, a baptism into a life of friendship and trust.

The city bells began to toll, bringing him blinking out of his reverie. Ten o'clock and all was well. Two more hours to go but the first four had flown by.

Then, with a sinking heart, d’Artagnan realised the inseparables were rising from their seats; stretching and belching, and making all the other noises that signalled their imminent departure.

Two more hours, thought d'Artagnan miserably. The minutes would pass much slower without his brothers to keep him company.

"Come on pup, time to shut up shop," Porthos called over to him, slapping his hat into shape before ramming it carefully onto his head.

"There are still two hours until midnight," d'Artagnan reminded his friend gently, surprised at how little an amount of wine had affected him.

"Not tonight, petite Gascon," Aramis sang, "Come, or all the prettiest maidens will be taken before we reach the tavern."

"I can't just abandon my duty," d'Artagnan protested with a shake of his head.

"Your duty was to guard the gates until midnight and then secure them for the night, was it not?" Aramis asked, a tune still on his lips as he twirled his cloak theatrically about him and secured it at the neck in a dandy clasp.

"Yes but—"

Porthos cut him off with a wave of his hand toward the garrison clock tower. "No problem then."

D'Artagnan squinted up at the hands of the clock, lit by moon- and torch-light, and saw to his surprise that both hands were upon the twelve. "But the—"

"The rules dictate that we go by the garrison clock," Aramis stated with triumphant flare. "...a clock which is set to the King's handpiece itself. There is no possibility of error."

D'Artagnan risked a glance to Athos, seeking sense, but received only a shrug and a nod. "Tis only sense," he said. "A musketeer must follow his orders."

D'Artagnan looked between the three, his eyes narrowed. "Am I going to get into trouble for this?” he asked woodenly.

Porthos snorted inelegantly. "For what? Following orders?"

"Treville sets the clock each morning himself, you know," Aramis said with a knowing twinkle in his eye.

Finally the pieces fit together. D'Artagnan gave his friends a grin that was only a little watery and then shut the gates.

His family counted for more than just the three inseparables, even if their affection made itself known in more subtle ways.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I decided d'Artagnan had not suffered enough and I am a bad person

D'Artagnan arrived at the garrison the next morning wondering which ached more, his head or his backside. At least the wine had numbed the latter enough that sleep had been no trial. Aramis' salve too had played its part to ease the welts that morning, despite the manner in which it had been handed to him; in the tavern no less, ensuring the greatest amount of crippling embarrassment. Porthos had laughed so hard he had fallen from his chair.

D'Artagnan was early, as was usually the case, and was surprised to see Aramis already at the gates.

"What's this? Didn't you mock me mercilessly not two days ago for being "disgustingly eager"?" he said with a laugh.

Aramis did not seem to share d'Artagnan's light mood however, and when addressed, his features darkened.

"No time for that," he said, as he hurried to the boy's side. "Come along, we must get you out of sight. How did Porthos miss you? Did you not meet him at the Rue de Lyon?"

"I didn't take the Rue, I passed through the Beauvau to buy some fresh pastries instead," d'Artagnan explained, nonplussed. "Aramis, what has got into you?"

"Never you mind," Aramis said, tugging d'Artagnan away from the garrison gates. "Come, we must "

"There he is, the wretch!"

D'Artagnan froze, recognising the nasal tones of privilege. Beside him Aramis gave a low groan. Turning, he saw Antionne d'Melliuor. Powders on his cheek were failing to hide a quite excellent bruise that ringed his eye. Beside the man stood another, his double but for a few decades.

"So this is the cur who dared to strike you?" said the man who was undoubtedly Antionne's father.

D'Artagnan sensed Aramis' panic, though the man remained outwardly calm. He knew what he had to do.

Stepping forward smartly he swept off his hat and bent into a low bow. "Charles de Batz-Castelmore d'Artagnan," he said, with all the formality that he could muster, "at your service, my lord."

"He has manners of a sort, I see," the lord d'Melliuor sneered.

 _More than you_ , _you arrogant snob_. D'Artagnan bit his tongue before the words could escape his mouth.

Aramis stepped to his side, repeating the bow with a little less formality. "May I present Henri Marquis d'Melliuor."

D'Artagnan's heart sank. _A Marquis? No wonder Athos had been so incensed. He was in deep trouble. And neither of the two looked very happy at Aramis' introduction either._

Henri d'Melliuor cleared his throat in an aggravated manner. " _Technically_ it is my father, François, who holds the title," he said, in a manner which implied this current state of affairs was unacceptable.

"Ah yes, how negligent of me," Aramis murmured smoothly. D'Artagnan realised that his friend was baiting the man. _Was it for his sake, or had Aramis' patience for pompous tits also worn thin?_

"My apologies, my lord."

Henri d'Melliuor gave the barest of nods in acknowledgment before turning his attention back to d'Artagnan. "It is not _your_ apologies for which I have come here today," he said darkly.

D'Artagnan bit back his first response and considered a more measured line of attack.

"I regret my actions of yesterday, my lord," he said carefully. "We men of the musketeers should never quarrel with our brothers."

Behind his father, Antionne snorted and rolled his eyes.

"And yet you make no apology to my son," Lord d'Melliuor continued.

"It was a disagreement for which we were both at fault," said d'Artagnan calmly. He knew that humility was in order, for the sake of the garrison's future, but he could not bring himself to grovel to such a man. "I allowed my temper to get the better of me, for which I am truly ashamed. Yet I believe that the provocation also warrants an apology. Since it was made first, I shall await mine before I offer my own."

The elder d'Melliuor's face reddened in anger. "I see that my son's assessment of you was correct," he sneered, "Your manner suggests a line devoid of any breeding whatsoever."

 _Money could buy manners for the wealthy,_ d'Artagnan mused _, but it seemed that only the incredibly rich believed it could be spent to forgive rudeness._

"Did you have business at the garrison today, my lord?" Aramis interjected before d'Artagnan could retort.

"Oh yes," Lord d'Melliuor said, his tone filled with menace, "you can be sure of that."

With that, the pair turned on their heels without any semblance of a parting bow.

"Pompous little shit," d'Artagnan muttered. "I see where he gets it."

Aramis grunted in agreement but made no true reply. He was frowning, staring after d'Melliuor and son in a pensive manner.

"So, am I going to become the shortest commissioned musketeer in history or what?" d'Artagnan asked, keeping his tone jovial.

This snapped Aramis from his thoughts and he stared at the boy for a while before giving a dark chuckle.

"Oh no, lad, nowhere near anything like that!"

D'Artagnan relaxed. "Well then "

"Felix Borbon was stabbed to death three hours into his commission. I'd say you'd be at least third on the list."

oOo

Captain Treville sat back in his chair and gave a firm nod.

"I understand completely, my lord."

Henri d'Melliuor smirked cruelly. "I am glad to finally meet a sensible man this morning, Treville."

"Captain, I must protest," Athos cut in. Throughout the lord d'Melliuor's long tirade he had stood to silent attention at the side of Treville's office. He had spoken once, to confirm his punishment of d'Artagnan, a fact which had pleased d'Melliuor far too much for his liking. Now, after a moment of silent horror as he realised Treville was giving in to the man's demands, he spoke up.

"D'Artagnan earned his commission from the king himself. He is a true and loyal soldier and an asset to this company."

"He is a mannerless beggar of little greater worth than a peasant," d'Melliuor interjected. "Really, Treville, it seems you let any man with a scrap of title enter the regiment these days."

"D'Artagnan is a good man," said Athos through clenched teeth, appalled that his captain voiced no protest of his own.

"He is a _farmer_ ," d'Melliuor snapped, "and no farmer should dare raise their hand to one of true noble blood."

Athos's mouth snapped into a thin, angry line. Giving up upon d'Melliuor he turned back to Treville.

"Captain, I "

"I anticipated your request, my lord," Treville spoke over the soldier to Henri. He reached forward and took up a sealed letter from the desk before him, holding it out toward Athos. "Take this to the boy. Ensure that he is seen on his way."

Athos could not conceal his horror. "Captain !"

"You are a musketeer," Treville snapped, glaring at his second in command. "You will follow my orders. I have and I always will act for the good of this regiment. Sometimes that necessitates harsh action."

Athos stared at his captain for a long moment and then snapped off a perfect salute, taking the letter and marching from the room without a backward glance.

"You think this action harsh, Treville?" Henri d'Melliuor inquired.

Treville leant back, interlacing his hands and resting them on his chest as he fixed the man with a genial smile. "Not at all, my lord, I welcome this opportunity to correct such a glaring deficiency in our ranks."

D'Melliuor nodded sagely. "I understand the wretch was commissioned by the king himself. His Majesty is a kind and generous man. Discretion, however, is the role of the military man. It falls upon us to... weed out those acts of more overzealous generosity."

oOo

D'Artagnan and Aramis looked up sharply as Athos entered the room. They were in one of the bunk rooms of the garrison reserved for the soldiers' use when business kept them overnight. Aramis had dragged the boy there quickly after his meeting with d'Melliuor, wishing him to have a private space in which to fret. He was leant upon the table's edge, arms folded as he quietly observed d'Artagnan's distracted pacing, but stood at Athos' arrival. D'Artagnan halted, both watching Athos as the man shut the door carefully behind him.

"Where is Porthos?" he asked.

Aramis' eyes were drawn to a letter in the man's hand. Frowning he replied: "A runner came for him not long ago. Heaven knows where Treville has sent him."

Athos grunted noncommittally. He kept his eyes averted, the hand that held the letter tensing and relaxing around it spasmodically.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan asked gently.

Startled from his contemplation, Athos looked into the boy's eyes, seeing understanding there, marred with the last remnants of hope. Firming his resolve, he raised the letter, holding it to his chest briefly before giving a deep sigh and holding it out to d'Artagnan.

"I'm sorry, lad," he said with hopeless sincerity. "When d'Melliuor is gone I will speak with Treville. Perhaps... perhaps he will see reason."

Aramis made a strangled noise half way between a snarl and a laugh. "Reason? This is madness!"

D'Artagnan took the letter without looking towards it. For a brief moment his face showed the pain and disgrace he must have felt, but a moment later it was gone and he straightened, raising his chin as he addressed his friends.

"Treville does what he must for... the sake of the regiment," he said woodenly. "I understand, truly I do. Please, allow me to say what an honour it was to serve at your sides, however brief. If you have need of my services in whatever capacity I would gladly give it..." His eyes became overcast then as he frowned. "But then perhaps it would be better not to do so. I... should leave Paris. There... is no reason to stay after all."

"Like hell there isn't," Athos growled. He was proud of the boy, for being so strong as his world shattered around him. First Constance, now his beloved musketeers. His heart ached for his friend, unwilling as it was to let such a man simply walk away from his life. "I said I would speak to Treville. Even if he does not see reason you can be certain that the King will not allow his favourite to leave his service so easily."

"The king's favour is fickle," said Aramis bluntly. "I am sorry, brother, but we must be realistic. Short of murdering d'Melliuor I see no way that we can reinstall d'Artagnan to our side."

"I would gladly do so, as it stands," Athos snarled.

Aramis placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I also, brother."

D'Artagnan gave the pair a weak smile. "Thank you, my friends, truly. But this is a mess I have made for myself. If I were not so rash, if I had kept my temper in check... such an event was inevitable, I am only thankful that I caused no lasting damage to the reputation of my— of the musketeers."

Aramis and Athos could not help their fond smiles. "You are ever our brother," Aramis said for both of them, knowing Athos would have difficulty voicing his feelings in this. He stepped closer to the young Gascon, wrapping a firm hand about the back of d'Artagnan's neck. "I am proud to have served with you, and we will do everything in our power to do so again. Porthos would say the same were he here. Please, do not lose hope."

D'Artagnan regarded the pair, tears glittering unshed in his eyes. "Thank you, all of you, I count you three as my dearest friends... I..." He looked down at his letter then, turning it to see what was written there, and frowned.

"Perhaps," he said, cautiously, as if even voicing his hope would send it fleeing, "perhaps there is another way..."


	4. Chapter 4

Treville gave d'Melliuor an expansive grin and stood. "My lord, I appreciate that you took the time to visit me over this matter. Can I offer you refreshment before you depart by way of thanks? I have an excellent cut of venison and a wine of good year to accompany it, if I can tempt you?"

D'Melliuor refrained from sneering, but only just. " _Sadly_ I have business elsewhere, Captain."

"A pity, another time then, my lord," Treville said, opening his office door and escorting his guest out.

"Yes, yes," the man waved a lace 'kerchief as if shooing away a bothersome fly. "I see your servants have managed to prepare my carriage," he said as they reached the courtyard.

"Bit of an issue there, squire," said a burly servant with a vicious scar on his face. "Your cart's lost a wheel."

Suppressing a shudder at the man's frankly horrifying diction, d'Melliuor gave his carriage a glare. Sure enough one of the hind wheels was lying upon the ground.

"Simply unacceptable," he snapped. "Repair it at once."

"Right you are, squire," the man said, tugging at his forelock and trundling off at minimal speed to organise a team to lift the tonne-weight.

"How did this happen?" d'Melliuor demanded of his driver.

The coach driver had a grey pallor to his skin, a sweaty sheen covering his brow.

"I was turning the horses, my lord," he said, the words measured as if coming from a script, "the wheel hit a flagstone."

"How disgracefully careless," d'Melliour snapped. "I shall have you flogged for "

"Perhaps you'd care to wait indoors while this inconvenience is dealt with, my lord," Treville interrupted smoothly.

D'Melliuor's lips curled only slightly at the thought, but a thin and persistent rain had begun which discouraged any man from remaining outdoors. "Very well," he said with poor grace.

Behind them, and without the marquis' hearing, his coachman, grey and sweating, muttered: _"pulled it off himself… just himself… like it was butter…"_

oOo

The dining hall of the musketeers garrison was little used these days, left empty but for times when special guests were entertained. It was a grand room, filled with hunting trophies and golden candelabras, plush furniture and more military metalwork than could fill a true armoury.

D'Melliour had sneered his way through the venison and several other courses of the garrison's finest food and wine. Antionne also had joined them at Treville's request, oozing smugness from every oiled pore.

Athos was standing at attendance, also at Treville's request. He radiated anger as palpably as he dared. When d'Melliuor had demanded of him a refill of the wine jug he had fought hard not to instead draw his sword. Henri d'Melliuor seemed not to notice the struggle, or the rage that suffused the musketeer's face. Antionne however, was keenly aware of Athos' discomfort and it seemed the boy was both afraid and delighted by it. At least he had enough sense not to request the same of his superior.

The conversation during the meal had palled dreadfully, consisting mostly of d'Melliour's dislike and distaste of a great many issues. The poor and lazy were generally to blame, and often interchangeable, but a goodly proportion of ills were laid at the door of the musketeers. Treville's leadership was often but subtly called to question, particularly in relation to the recruitment of _undesirable_ elements which brought such dishonour upon the once noble unit. Antionne lapped up his father's words with barely restrained glee, clearly enjoying having his commanding officer and the man who had only yesterday threatened him bodily harm, put firmly in his place.

Finally, d'Melliuor dabbed at his lips one final time and made to rise from his seat. "My thanks for such an... interesting meal, Treville."

The captain stood also, giving a low bow. He had spoken little during the conversation, instead allowing d'Melliuor the floor, showing little reaction as his company was ruthlessly shredded. Athos' could not help the rage that this brought him, his own palms aching where he had dug his nails in to prevent himself from lashing out at the man who held the musketeers' fate in his hands.

"My men will certainly have fixed your carriage by now," said Treville. "Allow me to escort you to the courtyard."

"Of course," d'Melliuor waved a hand as if he expected no less. "Tis a shame such common courtesies seem so lacking in your company."

"That depends on the worth of the recipient," Treville said with a bluntness he had not yet exhibited, "and it's "Captain", if you remember your manners rightly, soldier."

Both d'Melliuor's paused, startled both by Treville's change of tone and his aggressive stance, blockading them from exiting the room.

Henri recovered first. "I see. My apologies... Captain," he said with the merest of bows.

They remained in stony silence for a long moment, neither giving way. Treville's hand hovered close to the hilt of his sword. Sensing the shift in mood, Athos and the d'Melliuor's readied themselves also.

"Really, I expected better of you... Captain," Henri said, all acid tongue and hauteur.

"Oh?" Treville raised a threatening brow. "Can't say the same for you, sadly. You always were a jacked up little shit."

"Treville!"

The captain ignored Antionne's shocked outcry, his eyes remaining on the boy's father. "I shall give you one chance to come out of this with dignity, soldier; retract your demands while the opportunity remains."

"So, you are as weak in will and honour as that scruffy band of ruffians who dare to dishonour the name of the musketeers," said Henri, glaring at the man along the length of his nose. "If you are so bold as to defy me then you must not be as desperately in need of my patronage as it seems."

"D'Artagnan and the rest of my men are worth far more than your fifty thousand a quarter," Treville snapped. "If you cannot see sense then I want no part of it. I will never allow such a pompous shit to hold our good name to ransom."

"So be it!" Henri snapped, his face darkened to a shade of scarlet that, unknown to him, would have the previous day rivalled that of d'Artagnan's rear. "You shall see not one livre, Treville. Not one cent! And when I speak with the King, believe me, Treville, you shall be stationed so far from France that you will see London's bells!"

"That is, Captain Treville to you, boy," said a voice from the doorway.

Athos stepped aside, allowing the speaker admittance, his hand still upon his sword. Whoever the newcomer was he was clearly a relation, if older, of the d'Melliuor's. His face, however, was more stern, the eyes clear of lordly hauteur but for the crease of disdain at the edges as he surveyed those before him. He had been escorted in by Antionne's mentor, Gaspard, who took position at the other side of the door to Athos, his face impassive even at Athos' questioning look.

The reaction from the two d'Melliuors was mixed. Henri's face showed only exasperation, of an embarrassment that should have been kept hidden. Antionne on the other hand visibly paled.

"Ah, my lord Marquis," said Treville, coming forward and taking the hand that was offered, adding a small bow as he stepped away. "Thank you for coming, I hope it wasn't too much of an inconvenience?"

"You called him here?" Henri d'Melliuor snapped. "You dared to make such a demand of a Marquis?"

"I could not refuse, given the gravity of the situation," said François d'Melliuor. His voice was aged but sturdy, and the only concession to his advanced years was a walking stick. Given that the stick rattled when he walked, suggesting a hidden blade, Athos considered the man did not yet consider himself fully retired from military life.

"It is not every day that one receives demands that one _cease_ payment from a recipient, after all," the Marquis finished. At Treville's direction he settled himself down into a plush chair beside the fireplace, his stick out before him with both hands resting upon the top.

"Cease...?" Henri repeated and then whirled upon Treville as understanding dawned, scorn on his curled lips. "So, you were not in jest? I had hoped your outburst a mere moment of weakness, but I see you truly have gone mad."

"I assure you, I am in my right mind," Treville said coolly.

"But you dismissed the wretch d'Artagnan," Antionne also protested. "You gave him his letters and had him sent on his way."

"He gave him a letter, certainly," said François. He withdrew some papers from his tunic and held it up. "This letter, to be precise... and was then sent to my residence, where I had the pleasure of receiving him."

"And so you have been fetched here like a commoner," said Henri, glaring at Treville who stared impassively back. "How dare you, sir! I suppose that farce with the carriage was to detain me for some ridiculous reason? Are you hoping to shame us into giving in to your whims?"

"Do stop being ridiculous, Henri," François sighed.

"Father!"

"I merely wrote to the Marquis that, given your actions, and those of your son, I could not in good faith continue to accept the donation," said Treville. "I would also mention that should Antionne continue to treat his commission as a holiday instead of an honour, that he can seek his entertainment elsewhere."

"Thus ending a proud line of musketeers started by my father," François added, "a completely unacceptable circumstance, but one I would rather take than see my own blood disgrace my old regiment so thoroughly."

Henri gaped like a landed fish, his face once more a fiery hue. Beside him Antionne looked like a child standing upon a sandcastle, watching the incoming tide.

"You cannot give in to this... this commoner's demands," Henri snarled, thrusting out an accusatory hand toward the captain. "He's barely nobility at all, let alone his men. We cannot let such people think to contest us."

"I can do whatever I damn well please," François snapped, "and until I am in my grave you have no say in the matter. Perhaps if you had conducted yourself in the latter half of your years with more respect and honour I would listen to you now, but ever since you left the musketeers you have fallen in with entirely the wrong crowd."

"Oh, and who would that be, pray?"

"People not likely to give you a thump around the ear when you spout such dogmatic nonsense for a start," his father said with acid humour. "I gave the better half of _my_ life in the service of this fine regiment, and it positively _shames_ me to hear you speak of it so. Captain Treville and his men have more honour and humility in one finger, than you have over all."

Henri d'Melliuor had passed rage and was now in the realms of white-skinned fury. "Very well," he said, biting off his words as if tasting for his father's jugular. "Do as you wish, I shall protest such folly no longer. But I shall not have my son remain in a unit unfit to wipe his boots!"

François d'Melliuor's eyes narrowed. "Since you scorn my choices of patronage so much, you clearly will not wish to be included within its scope," he said, "I also would not wish to see my fortune spent upon such an unworthy cause."

Henri stilled instantly, his mouth snapping into a thin line. "You would not disgrace me so," he ventured, after a long pause.

"No?" the Marquis' eyes were hard as steel. "You disgrace yourself enough with this arrogant display. Surely it shall be no hardship for you, you are, after all, a seasoned military man."

Henri and Antionne both showed plainly their disgust at the idea of working for a living.

"Then you have a choice, as I see it," said François calmly; "Either stand by your convictions and relinquish the shelter of my patronage, or you concede." He gave a wicked smile then. "It shall be only be ten, perhaps fifteen years of hardship before I die and the fortune becomes yours in any case. Surely that is no little hardship to stand by one's principles until that time?"

"Are you insane?" Antionne exploded, flinging his hands in the air and even stamping out his anger. "You can't do this. The disgrace! Why would you side with these peasants above your own blood? It is madness!"

François d'Melliuor regarded his grandson in solemn silence for a long moment. In that time the boy calmed enough to come to the realisation that he had made a grave mistake.

"That boy, d'Artagnan did not strike you hard enough, it seems."

"Father!" Henri protested again, but his voice was hushed, his manner cowed.

"That young man quite bravely revealed the extent to which he was punished for putting you in your place," the Marquis said, ignoring his son. He looked toward Gaspard. "Tell me, monsieur, for you are his mentor: what punishment did my grandson receive for his part in the scrap?"

Gaspard, nervous at being so addressed, cleared his throat before replying. "I placed him on the tower guard for the rest of the day, my lord."

The Marquis nodded solemnly whilst Athos fumed. Guard duty was dull no matter where your posting, but the tower spot was warm and dry, and if you got the timing right you could play a round of cards between shifts without your superiors noticing.

"And do you believe that this was adequate?"

Gaspard regarded the Marquis with the eye of a dog who had spent many months tormented by the village boys, only to find one day that his chain had snapped. He fixed Antionne with a predatory eye that had all the colour draining from the boy's cheeks, and then looked back to the Marquis, shoulders squared.

" _Absolutely not_ , my lord."

"Perhaps you wish to remedy that?" François suggested genially.

Gaspard saluted smartly then turned upon Antionne.

"Wait!" the boy protested, stepping hastily out of range. "I shall not allow this!"

"If you wish to remain under my patronage, you most decidedly shall." The marquis' voice was steel and filled with promise. "As will your father."

Antionne turned to his father, the last bastion of defence, but Henri was still frozen in place, and offered his son no salvation. Antionne gaped, his body sagging in defeat.

Gaspard took advantage of his charge's immobility and snatched two handfuls of the back of the boy's collar, whirling him about and marching him away before him out of the door.

François looked over to Treville and gave the man an easy smile of genuine warmth. "Now that business is concluded, perhaps I might prevail upon you for some of that excellent wine I had at our last meeting, Captain?" As Treville nodded the Marquis gave his son a hard glare. "I do believe your carriage is repaired, sir. I suggest you make use of it before I consider conscription as part of my conditions."

Athos did not step aside as Henri swept past, forcing the man to brush his shoulder. He allowed a small smile to quirk his lips at that. He bowed to his captain and the marquis, meaning to take his leave, but a word from the lord stopped him.

"You are the mentor of d'Artagnan, are you not monsieur?"

"I am, sir," Athos said with another bow.

"The young man spoke of you with high praise," d'Melliuor said with a nod, "he is a credit to you."

Relief and pride threatened for an instant to break through Athos' usual stony continence but he weathered the feeling, allowing only the barest of wry smiles through. "He has much to learn. I thank you for giving him the opportunity to do so."

"I also," said Treville. He had poured out wine for the man and now handed him the glass, "and thank you for visiting at such short notice."

François took the glass, waving away their thanks. Then he leant forwards, eyes glittering with mischief. "Tell me, Captain: What would you have done, had I accepted your request to cease my funding of the Musketeers?"

"I'd take back the drink for starters," Treville rumbled, taking a swig of his own. "I'd have needed it to drown my sorrows."

"So you concede it was a possibility?"

"Oh, yes. You could have hit your head really hard and become a different person."

Athos did smile at that. Whatever Treville said, his actions had been a gamble, if a calculated one. He had risked the fate of the entire regiment on the life of one man, and if he thought he was going to get away without the inseparables acknowledging it in a significant way then he was very much mistaken.

"If you would excuse me, sirs, I believe I have business elsewhere," he said, bowing again.

D'Melliuor inclined his head and glass in return. "Give your young charge my regards. He is a hope for the future of this regiment that I had once wished to see realised in my own children. I trust you shall guard that hope well."

"With all my strength, my lord," said Athos with utmost sincerity.

oOo

"Well?!"

Athos paused, regarding Porthos with a cool eye. The man's outburst was not unexpected, but he had thought to at least be allowed to rest before the interrogation began.

"You make a terrible servant," he said, casually casting his hat upon the table before taking his customary seat.

"We know that," Aramis said with a groan. He leant back, snagging the wine jug from d'Artagnan and filling his cup. "Tell us about the Marquis."

"I would have thought our young friend has had his fill of marquis for this week," Athos said blithely, causing d'Artagnan to choke on his wine and Porthos to chuckle deeply into his own cup.

"Stop being facetious," said Aramis, wagging his finger at his friend. "I want to hear all the wonderful, embarrassing details."

"I bet Henri shat his pants when his daddy walked in," Porthos said with a wide grin.

"Nothing of the sort," Athos corrected with a genteel sip at his wine, "I believe the lord d'Melliuor had not even considered that his father would chose we undesirables over his own blood."

"Is that what happened then?" Aramis pried. "We assumed that the tides had turned when d'Artagnan returned with the marquis, but we could not be certain."

Athos was about to reply when a wail penetrated their conversation. It resonated through the courtyard, filled with pain and dismay.

"Gaspard is introducing our dear Antionne to another marquis, I hear," Athos said with barely concealed pleasure.

The two other inseparables chuckled but d'Artagnan appeared distracted, almost distressed by the sound.

"Was... has it always been so clear to..." he cleared his throat, a deep flush darkening his cheeks.

His three fellow musketeers grinned broadly.

Aramis turned to Porthos, slapping the man's shoulder remonstrively. "Porthos, did you leave the window in the armoury open again?" he demanded.

Porthos smacked his hand to his head, feigning contrition. "I musta forgot to close it," he said, shaking his head. "Ah well, it's good to give everything a bit of an airing."

Another wail shot through the afternoon air. The garrison at this time of day was not busy, but those musketeers and servants who were about appeared to give the sound no mind. However, many of them bore faint smiles and occasionally a laugh would be cut short; Antionne had made himself few friends within the regiment.

The three inseparable a looked up when d'Artagnan rose, his jaw set in a determined frown.

"He won't thank you for it," Athos said mildly.

"Nevertheless," was all the boy said before he set off toward the armoury.

"He's a good lad," Porthos commented when he was out of earshot.

Aramis grunted sourly. "Too good, for the likes of Antionne d'Melliuor," he said, and drained his cup.

"Perhaps that is all a boy like d'Melliuor needs," Athos mused. "D'Artagnan is not by far the worst influence we could hope for."

"You think that pompous fool can be redeemed?" Aramis asked with genuine surprise; they had all known enough similar men of Antionne's calibre to understand the scant likelihood of reformation.

Another wail was muffled mid-cry, suggesting a window somewhere had been closed shut by sympathetic hands.

"If anyone can do it, it is our d'Artagnan," said Athos, his lips curling upward as he contemplated the lack of wine in his cup.

Aramis leant over, filling it to the brim. "In that, we are in agreement," he said, and the three brought their cups together in a silent toast to brotherhood and the bright future of the kings musketeers.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry-not-sorry


End file.
